Midas
But not content with that, Bacchus now left the Thracians; and with finer devotees, he reached the vineyards of his own Timolus, his Lydian land on the Pactolus’ banks, although that river’s flow and bottom sands were not yet precious, golden—such as men would envy. There, his customary satyrs and his bacchantes crowded round him—but Silenus was not there. Some Phrygian farmers had found him stumbling with the weight of years and wine; they made him captive, bound him fast with vines; that done, they led him to King Midas, who’d been instructed in the rites of Bacchus by Thracian Orpheus and by Eumolphus of Athens. And when Midas recognized his friend and old companion in those rites, he welcomed him at once; and he decreed a festival—to last ten days and nights, all in a row—to honor old Silenus. But now, for the eleventh time, the rise of Lucifer has driven from the sky the stars of night. And Midas has arrived, with joy, in Lydia, to reconsign Silenus to his cherished protégé: his foster-son, the god whom he had trained. And Bacchus, glad to see his teacher safe, rewarded Midas so: the god would give to Midas anything that he might wish (a gift both flattering and—if one picks unwisely—perilous). The king made this sad choice: “Do grant that anything that is touched by my body turns to yellow gold.” That prayer was granted by the god, and so Bacchus discharged the fatal debt he owed. And yet the god was sad, for he had hoped the king would ask for something more than gold. But Midas was delighted; quite content, he went his way and, on his path, began to touch this thing, then that—so he could test the truth of Bacchus’ promise. It was hard to trust his own eyes, but when he had bent a green twig hanging from a low oak branch, the twig was turned to gold. And, too, a stone that he had picked up from the ground soon showed the color of pale gold. He touched a clod; beneath the spell his finger held, that soil became a chunk of gold. He plucked dry stalks of wheat, and what he harvested was gold. He held an apple he’d picked off a tree: you’d say it came from the Hesperides. And if a towering pillar felt his touch, at once he saw it glitter. Even when he bathed his hands, and limpid water ran down from his fingers, Danae might well have been beguiled. Beside himself, gone wild, he dreamed that everything had turned to gold. As he rejoices, Midas’ servants set his table—high with meats and with no lack of toasted bread. But when he reaches out to touch the gifts of Ceres, they grow hard; and if, with avid teeth, he bites a piece of meat, where they have bit that piece, his teeth meet yellow gold. He mixes some pure water and wine of Bacchus, Midas’ benefactor; and in his mouth it’s liquid gold that floats. Amazed by his incredible mishap, a wretch among such riches, he detests what he had hoped to get; he cannot stand those treasures. There’s no heap of food that can appease his hunger, and he burns with thirst— his throat is parched. And, just as he deserves, he’s tortured and tormented now by gold. Lifting his hands and gleaming arms to heaven, “Forgive me, father Bacchus; I have sinned,” he cries; “but do have mercy, I implore; release me from the specious fate I sought.” The gods are capable of kindness: since King Midas recognized that he had sinned, Bacchus restored his former state to him; the god retrieved the gift that, after all, he’d only given to make good his word. He said: “Lest you be left within the clutch of gold, the trap that you so rashly sought, go to the river near the mighty town of Sardis, and then walk upstream till you come, as you ascend the hillside, to the source; there, place your head beneath the fountain’s spray, just where its jet is fullest; you must bathe your body there—and wash your sin away.” So Bacchus ordered, and the king obeyed. He reached the source; and even as he bathed, the waters—from the human form they washed— took on the force that once lay in his touch: the power to transform things into gold. Even today, along Pactolus’ shores, the fields—which still receive the precious seed from that old vein—are glittering, pale and cold: the stream that soaks the soil is streaked with gold. And Midas, hating riches, now frequents the fields and forests; and he honors Pan, who always makes his home in hillside caverns. But Midas’ wits are what they always were— not sharp; his mind, as it had done before, seeks stupid things that are to do him harm. The mountain-mass of Tmolus rises steep; its peak looks out upon the distant sea; upon one side its height slopes down to reach the town of Sardis; on its other flank lies small Hypaepa. There, one day, while Pan was charming tender nymphs with melodies and light cadenzas piped on shepherd’s reeds held fast with wax, he dared to scorn the songs Apollo sang, if set against his own. Too rash, he now was matched—unequally— against Apollo. Tmolus was to be the judge; and so that tutelary god was seated on his ancient mountaintop. To hear, he shook his ears free from the trees. To wreathe his dark green hair, he wore oak leaves; around his hollow temples, acorns hung. Then, facing Pan, the shepherd-god, he said: “This judge is ready for you; go ahead.” And Pan, upon his rustic reeds, began to play, entrancing Midas (who by chance was there) with his barbaric shepherd’s airs. When Pan was done, the sacred Tmolus turned his face toward Phoebus’ face; and as he turned, his forests followed him. The god-of-Delos’ fair hair was wreathed with laurel of Parnassus; his mantle, steeped in purple dye from Tyre, was long enough to sweep the ground. His lyre, inlaid with gems and Indian ivory, was held by his left hand; and in his right he held the plectrum. Even in his stance he seemed a master artist. With a thumb adept, consummate in its craft, he plucked the strings; and Tmolus, moved by notes so sweet, declared defeat for Pan and his rude reeds. And all approved the sacred mountain-god’s decision. Only Midas—no one else— protested, said the verdict was unjust. Apollo cannot suffer that affront: he can’t allow such stupid ears to vaunt their human shape; and so he made them longer, and added gray and shaggy hair as cover, and made them, at their base, unstable, loose, so that they could be moved. But just that part was changed: all else retained its human cast. This was the only punishment of Midas: to wear the ears of a slow-moving ass. He had to hide his shame, his horrid blot; and so, around his temples, Midas wrapped a purple turban. But the slave who cut the king’s hair when it was too long, found out. He did not dare reveal what he had seen; yet he was keen to speak of the disgrace— he was not one to keep it to himself. So, leaving Midas, he went off to dig a hole within the ground; and into this, he murmured—all his words were soft and low— what he had learned. Then, covering that hole, he buried what he’d said; that done, he stole away in silence. But above that hole, a stand of swaying reeds began to grow; and when a year had passed, those reeds stood tall, and they betrayed the servant who had sown his secret there; for as the soft south wind stirred them, they spoke his buried words, made known King Midas’ shame—the ass’s ears he’d grown.